you tell me what's real.
it has been over a month since i've had a good cry. i almost cried telling you that last night. i wanted to tell you when the last cry was. it was when i was writing that list. of things that i was going to miss about the one that came before you. i looked you in the eye and started to tell you. but you looked me back and prodded. i stopped. you told me i was so secretive. we fell asleep like that.
"but i got no problem with that really..."
i went to the anarchist book fair yesterday. it is so nice to be reminded of all the amazing things people are producing. i feel so ridiculous when i realize that all i read are coursepacks. coursepacks. coursepacks. i feel so snobby. especially when i see all these amazing people with their hearts and souls printed double-sided on sale for $1.50. i wonder when i will get to sell all my secrets.
we watched capote last night. i fell asleep before it ended. he asked me when i was going to write my book. i shrugged. my old answer used to be when i had gained some more life experience. thats a shitty phrase. but you know. done some travelling. i still don't think i'm ready. i'm not there yet. but i do know i can't just up and write a book. i would have no idea where to start. how to do it. i need to start working on little things first. stories. poems. i need to start producing. instead of hoarding them inside. crumpling and pushing them around in the empty spaces between my organs. they all hide there. i am so scared to let anyone see. maybe they need to stay there. breathe with me. pulse inside of me. until soon... i will pack one more away... i will find one last crack... and i will shove and shove... but this time, i will burst open. i will stand wide-eyed as my insides explode onto paper. i will rupture at all my seams. and maybe i will produce something... worthwhile. good.
"life is just a boring chore... i'm living proof."
so today. i will hide away in my room. listening to ani. trying to feel like i am not a copy of a copy of a copy. a photograph of a photograph of a photograph. a machine modeled after something that was once real.
it has been over a month since i've had a good cry. i almost cried telling you that last night. i wanted to tell you when the last cry was. it was when i was writing that list. of things that i was going to miss about the one that came before you. i looked you in the eye and started to tell you. but you looked me back and prodded. i stopped. you told me i was so secretive. we fell asleep like that.
"but i got no problem with that really..."
i went to the anarchist book fair yesterday. it is so nice to be reminded of all the amazing things people are producing. i feel so ridiculous when i realize that all i read are coursepacks. coursepacks. coursepacks. i feel so snobby. especially when i see all these amazing people with their hearts and souls printed double-sided on sale for $1.50. i wonder when i will get to sell all my secrets.
we watched capote last night. i fell asleep before it ended. he asked me when i was going to write my book. i shrugged. my old answer used to be when i had gained some more life experience. thats a shitty phrase. but you know. done some travelling. i still don't think i'm ready. i'm not there yet. but i do know i can't just up and write a book. i would have no idea where to start. how to do it. i need to start working on little things first. stories. poems. i need to start producing. instead of hoarding them inside. crumpling and pushing them around in the empty spaces between my organs. they all hide there. i am so scared to let anyone see. maybe they need to stay there. breathe with me. pulse inside of me. until soon... i will pack one more away... i will find one last crack... and i will shove and shove... but this time, i will burst open. i will stand wide-eyed as my insides explode onto paper. i will rupture at all my seams. and maybe i will produce something... worthwhile. good.
"life is just a boring chore... i'm living proof."
so today. i will hide away in my room. listening to ani. trying to feel like i am not a copy of a copy of a copy. a photograph of a photograph of a photograph. a machine modeled after something that was once real.
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